The ribbon
by ar-men15
Summary: A work inspired by the idea Ned Stark had sent "someone" to protect his younger daughter. This story belongs to the "Anime Gemelle/soulmates summer challenge" of the FB Group "Il giardino di EFP"
1. Chapter 1

Sitting by the window, the first light of day to illuminate the world of snow and ice, a man closed his eyes, waiting to be called into the audience room.  
It was not difficult for him to remain concentrated and in silence, so many thoughts were chasing each other in his mind, so many memories for six years.  
Before, his life had no memories, faces, places or events worth, nothing belonged to his past.  
There was no past. Simply.  
Six years to transform himself from no one to someone, six years to change his life.  
A shrill sound pushed him away from his thoughts, outside the window a white eagle leaned against the balcony rail, the top floor of the round tower.  
The man stood up. He was sure it was the same eagle he had met in recent years, he recognized the small imperfection in the plumage, the group of darker feathers, tending to gray, on the back.  
He smiled, he too had a similar imperfection in his hair.  
The eagle looked at him and then soared, turning three times over him and then moving away towards the mountains.  
Returning to the warmth of the room, next to the fire lit in the enormous fireplace, the man noticed that a ray of sunlight from a small hole in the glass hit a side stone of the structure, which appeared slightly thrown out of the others.  
He ran his fingers along the edge and found it moving.  
He already imagined what he would find, he was no longer surprised by the signs he had encountered during his journey and that morning, due to the special significance of the events that were to take place, it was foreseeable that the great spirit that protected the house and its inhabitants would be manifested again.  
The wise father still watched over his children, their ancestral house and their lands.  
He decided to wait a moment and take the small velvet box from the locked drawer and read again the precious roll inside.

-

His Master had been explicit and direct in giving him orders.  
Eventually the Master took a roll, tied with a black ribbon, instructing him to read the contents only when he received a sign.  
A man felt strangely restless, a different assignment, one without having to kill, for once.  
He had discussed with the Master the best way to get in touch, he had asked for a detailed description, the one that had been referred to the Master himself.  
A man was given the choice of the how and where, the teacher trusted him, but a man had to act quickly, the request was urgent, the journey was long.  
A man asked for nothing else, it was a routine, in the end, in the various years of service, his reliability and efficiency had never been disputed.  
The scroll slid into the deep pocket of his tunic.


	2. Chapter 2

A man had prepared the meeting in the prisoner's cage, but a man wasn't prepared for those eyes and that look, which were too much for him, too intense, determined and ready to reveal a girl different from all the others.  
Arya Stark of Winterfell.  
Not even for a minute did he believe she was a boy.  
A mysterious combination, gray eyes and dark hair, a rare prodigy, a signal.  
Their farewell, too soon, and his gift, the precious coin - left behind by a strange sensation that a man felt inside - certainly wasn't a goodbye.  
His teacher had only talked about a contact, not giving further details, and the coin instead implied a future, something difficult for a faceless man, who lived only for the present. He took the bag with the roll in it, gently removed the ribbon, underneath it appeared the inscription "To a man." It couldn't be for him, he was no one and no one received no letters.  
And instead, when he unrolled it, a second roll appeared with a thin red ribbon; on the outside under it was the inscription "To Jaquen H'ghar, intended to protect my daughter Arya Stark.  
A man knew that there was magic among the Starks, listening to the stories of the merchants was part of his work and the taverns of the landing were precious places for that task.  
One of the girl's brothers was different, partly a wizard or a sorcerer from distant lands, and perhaps even her father had special powers.  
A father that a man would never have known had written the message, because the father was already dead when a man received the mission, as his teacher had said. The roll now burned like a living fire, a man couldn't hold it in his hand, the skin burned.  
He couldn't read it, it wasn't the time; he dropped it on the grass that immediately appeared yellow and dry, destroyed by the heat, while the sheet remained intact.

A man didn't know how to dream, there were no memories or prompts or cues to occupy his mind at night, during the hours dedicated to rest the body.  
But the voice he heard, the person in front of him, tall, dark hair, beard with white marks, was real in his room or just a fruit of imagination, of sleep?  
The candles were lit and illuminated the interior.  
A man sat up, how could anyone have entered without him having noticed? His ability was to always be ready and who was this intruder, without a sword, without apparent instruments of offense or defense.  
A man carefully observed his interlocutor, who raised his hand to indicate his eyes, and a man saw the iris with the same gray of Arya, the same color, and the nose and face and the close resemblance.  
"I'm her father. Don't worry, you're just dreaming."  
"I don't know how to dream."  
"Now you know how, I'll explain you what you can do for my daughter when she comes back to you."  
"Will she really do it?"  
"You gave her the coin, she needs you."  
Perhaps in a dream could a father know about the coin, about that offer made to be able to see a girl again, to be able to help her?  
Stark approached, touched his shoulder.  
"You are the chosen one, Jaquen H'ghar."  
"I am no one, I have no name."  
"Arya gave you a name."  
How could Stark have written that name if he died before a man met his daughter? How could Stark already know the name that had been given to a man as a fire mark on his chest?  
What forces had fought inside a man while Arya looked at the face a man would use every day and every night if he hadn't become anyone? Who was really Arya Stark, what was she able to become if her strength was such as to define people, even those who had no identity?

Stark became an habitual presence in sleep or wakefulness, it wasn't easy for a man to change his habits, the master noticed and left a man alone, to allow him to hear the inner voice that was Stark, who appeared more frequently the more a man was far from the hall of faces, from the walls and from the rooms in only two colours.  
A man couldn't foresee when and where he would have felt the presence of Arya's father.  
One day he heard him among the horses of a camp, agitated by the sounds of wolves in the distance.  
"My daughter has a she-wolf who protects her, but not enough, a she-wolf cannot resist everything."  
"That's right. And a man will take the place of the wolf?"  
"He will first have to teach her what she needs to defend herself and to fight. My daughter has a difficult task ahead of her. "  
A man bowed his head respectfully.  
"When you dream of the wolf and the eagle running together you can read the scroll," Stark said before fading away.  
The nights of disturbance began, visited by dreams, indistinct fogs, bright colours, strange sounds.  
A man was uncertain whether he could rule the dreams, regulate them or decide - as before - not to have them.  
They crept under his mind subtly, were threads that returned back to something that remained at the edge of his mind. But there was never in her dreams a lovely girl, who was perhaps the only thing a man wanted to dream of, to understand when he would see her again.


	3. Chapter 3

Stark dismounted next to the entrance of a stone house, surrounded by lower buildings with thatched roofs and walls of a light colour, a place that reminded something to a man, a distant past.  
The woman with red hair, shining in the morning light, came out of the door, two girls in tow, headed to the stable where a horse was tied to a cart loaded with first-fruits of great value, freshly picked. The husband held the reins of the animal and the woman called her youngest child, a boy who was carrying a basket larger than him, with valuable strawberries to sell at the market.  
Stark remained motionless inside a thick rose bush, silent and invisible to the armed men who suddenly came galloping from all directions. The boy dropped the basket and hid inside the bush and Stark's heavy cloak as the warriors passed with the ferocity of the destroyers, killing his father and mother and loading the sisters onto their horses. From inside the house the grandmother ran out and was pierced by a sword before seeing her loved ones dead.  
The boy barely had time to understand what was happening, only when the fire enveloped his house did he move and Stark held him by the arm, two warriors were still close, they would see him. The men looked around, looking for someone, but the cloak and the thorns were a perfect hiding place.  
Stark turned to the boy only when they were alone.  
"You can't save them, you couldn't then, you can't now."  
"Let me go!"  
The red-haired boy rebelled, hitting Stark with a man's hands, protruding veins, calloused fingers, hitting a spirit.  
"Jaquen, stop, they killed your family years ago, you can't go back."  
"They all died, they also killed my sisters, I found them along the way and I was dying of hunger and thirst."  
The knights had deliberately thrown poison into the well, set the orchard on fire and destroyed the fields with crops so that no one could live there any longer and the boy had wandered for days without reference points, lost, until a kind stranger found him unconscious in a forest, partly hidden by large boulders.  
"Your master picked you up without knowing who you would become."  
"I am no one."  
"You're a H'ghar, you're not the last one."  
A boy now a man was shaking his head, refusing the name that represented that pain.  
He had forgotten everything in order not to suffer anymore and he didn't want to remember to move, it had been hard to abandon himself and become a faceless person.  
"When you revealed yourself to my daughter you were already someone."  
What led him to use his real name and his true face with Arya and then to deny them?  
He asked Stark for an explanation but the man turned into an eagle and his horse into a wolf, disappearing into the fog.  
When he woke up, a man took the roll and immediately saw that few lines only were written, with an obscure meaning.  
"There will be difficult days, there will be hard work and sweat for you and for her, trust and respect for an ambitious goal.  
You will be a skilled teacher of a demanding student, she will test you and you will learn new things."  
The scroll gave no answers to his doubts, if his destiny was to serve, the path was similar to what he was already experiencing; to obey and to serve, it was useless to oppose.  
He asked his master if the paths of the mind could vary from the itinerary that seemed to have been established: after twenty years lived in the service of the God, he was losing reference points.  
His teacher had long understood that Arya Stark was not destined to lose his identity, but she was the means to a nobler, superior goal, which the God himself accepted and blessed.  
If for this purpose a man had to rediscover himself, this was also the will of the God, to whom all faceless men had respect and devotion.

During the years Arya remained at the House of White and Black, Stark reduced his appearances; a man wanted to ask questions to his pupil's father, perhaps he misinterpreted Stark's words, perhaps the plans had changed, maybe for Arya the training was too difficult.  
Doubts about the future of Arya, the past, the present suspended in the temple, trying to understand the reason for turning a girl into a disciple of the red God.  
Stark remained on the edge of the world of a faceless man, an impalpable presence manifested in minute signs.  
A man limited himself in playing his teacher role at best, scrupulous and inflexible with his student, convinced that in the end she would remain at his side as one of the few girls.  
Patience and silence shared made him more and more attached to Arya, who endured without complaining the long hours of training, the physical pain and the tests of resistance to which she was subjected.

Stark waited in the woods outside the temple, wearing elegant clothes, riding the parade horse, the most impressive look he had, when alive: a nobleman, a soldier, a knight.  
He called the assassin to come closer, lowering his sword as a sign of no hostility.  
"I chose well for her. She's ready."  
"A girl is not faceless yet."  
"The training is concluded, Arya has a mission, now you are recognized as Jaquen H'ghar, her teacher."  
A question rose to the lips of a man, unable to break away from them.  
He was not Jaquen H'ghar, he was a faceless man, he was no one, why didn't her father see the white orbits, the indistinct nose, the watery mouth?  
And instead he looked at a face with precise and defined contours, admired it and said something in a strange language of which a man understood few words.  
"And your blood will enter into hers, into ours."  
What did he mean? Killing her, no, he didn't want to do it, he couldn't hit Arya now, it was his pupil, his project.  
This desire of protection, of vigilance, he didn't dare to call it of possession, was something new. Even the idea to die himself seemed no longer acceptable, a strong displeasure since the lovely girl had entered his life. He would rather have sacrificed himself than hurt her.

Arya had left, wrapped in her vehemence, making her choice, what had been written, what Stark had said,  
Future made sense only after the choices of the present.  
The time of waiting was endless, the tasks that were assigned to a man were of shorter duration than in the past, his old master chose other assassins for assignments far or longer in duration, so that a man was often near the temple.  
The old master looked at him in silence at the common meal table: since the girl had left the temple, his favorite pupil - his little guilt, having a predilection - was changing little by little.  
If so, Stark's prophecy would indeed come to fulfilment. He got a confirmation when, after returning after a weeklong mission, the master saw a slight red beard on a man's chin.  
To a faceless man, no mustache or beard grew, no wrinkles on the forehead or imperfections on the skin, no redness or pallor. The flexibility to change many faces also crystallized the real one, which many killers used inside the House.  
Soon a man could no longer wear a mask, he would remain a skilled, expert assassin, condemned, however, not to change his physical appearance anymore. The old master remained silent, he already saw the signs of inner turmoil, he wanted to spare his pupil the painful process.

It was a mission that could last a lifetime, with that name and that face.  
Going backwards, with an effort, the master estimated their first meeting in two decades, when a frightened boy had passed for the first time under the great arch of the temple. A natural talent, a full acceptance of the rules and a total devotion to the cause. A real pity to let him go, but if the God so decided, which of his disciples could oppose His will?  
One day he led a man into the face room, it was time.  
"Signs of death come from the North with increasing frequency."  
A man nodded, for some time he felt the blood flow faster and the heart beat faster with each visit from Stark.  
"Your task is there. Tomorrow the new mission begins."  
"Everyone must serve."  
"That's right."  
The master gazed him.  
"Do you know that your return is uncertain?"  
"If the god calls me ..."  
The master raised a hand to interrupt, a strange gesture for such a calm and measured man.  
"God has a project for you that does not develop within these walls. Go and find your way, maybe it will take years, then you can come back here to tell it. Just remember never to reveal our secrets."  
Before a man could reply, the master had slipped away.


	4. Chapter 4

Far from the House, the man felt a new kind of freedom, he had control of his life and at the same time he was unsure of what his destiny would be: he only knew that he had to go to Arya Stark in Winterfell.  
On the edge of the ice lake extending in front of him the man closed his eyes to get in touch with Stark in the world from which nobody came back and he felt the touch of the wind around his head.  
When he opened his eyes again, a sign in the ice - arrow-shaped branches and leaves visible below the transparent surface - indicated the way to follow.  
The path to the North was difficult, cold and ice prevented the man from proceeding at the desired speed, the horse was strained and the rider tired. He had passed from the sun-scorched hills to the snow-white mountains, he had lost count of travel days.  
Sark appeared in the eagle and in the wind, he saw it soar above him to signal the route, it disappeared when he stopped for the night in a village inn, to put the horse in the stable and feed the animal and himself .  
A force pushed him to the North, he was attracted to Arya, for the man there could be no other: if he ever had to choose, if his path had been written from the beginning, leading him to her, then the man was sure , Arya Stark was destined for him, never a child, a girl, an ordinary woman, but the one that filled the emptiness inside him, the emptiness that had been created, developed and wanted in him to bring out all of himself and his past and fill it with nothing but a single purpose, kill.  
It was not easy to get out of the void to enter a body made of blood, flesh and soul.  
The journey to Winterfell was also a journey into himself.  
To feel every fiber come back to life, painfully, every nerve and muscle and limb stretch and the blood flow and make its way in the veins. The lungs expand and contract with each breath, the air slipping into the throat, reaching every tiny alveolus and then coming out, reverse path. The heart beats with difficulty in the chest against the new sensations called fears, the rigid back after the long hours on horseback.  
This meant being alive, really live, be born as an adult, be born with a story to live and a life already lived.

The man asked Stark to manifest himself and shouted to the eagle his anguish, his uncertainty of arriving in time for the battle; the last part of the journey seemed endless, the need to see his lovely girl was consuming him. The loss of all certainties made him more fragile.  
One night beyond the hills in the distance there were sounds and flashes, the sky was populated by dark winged creatures, the cold was more intense; the man had a strong pang in his heart, he felt the cold and he was hungry, food supplies were running out.  
He fell to his knees, his hands to his chest, begging his God not to let him die now, so close to the goal. His eyes squeezed hard, and at the touch of the wind on his shoulder he stirred, Stark was in front of him, in combat gear.  
"You can still continue. The battle is imminent. "  
The man shook his head, he had to stop for a few hours, he felt weak, he needed to regain his strength.  
"I can't do it tonight."  
"You have to. My daughter feels fear, hers and yours. She is seeking refuge in a man who is not suited to her. Do you want to lose her now that you're so close? Do you want her to hug him instead of you? "Arya's vision near a black-haired young man, a big fire behind them.  
She was as he remembered her, her hair now long, braids, just a little higher, a line on her forehead to signal her concern; Arya was a warrior. He held out his hand, as if to touch her, but she kept talking about swords and daggers.  
The man felt something melt inside, the pain in his heart changed form and nature, a subtle suffering took his breath away, he felt himself being stung by a thousand needles without understanding their origin.  
He searched for a name for what he sensed, unsuccessfully, the closer he got to Winterfell, the more confusion grew in him. The points of reference of his life as a man without a face and without history were lost in the distance between himself and the temple, Stark transmitted impulses the man did not always know how to interpret. The desire he had often seen in so many people was now inside him and had a name, Arya; he had gone through fire and ice for her, he had purified himself from his past.  
He heard a noise behind him, whirled around with his sword and saw the wolf's enormous eyes: she was real and the vapor of the breath condensed quickly in the cold.  
Stark pointed the man to the wolf, the animal approached cautiously, sniffing until she crouched, her ears always alert.  
"For a few hours Nymeria will warm you, but then you will have to continue."  
Stark extended his arm toward the North, an imperious attitude; there was an important reason to continue, the killer felt it inside himself. His choice was just to obey.

The eagle remained above Jaquen and Arya for the entire time of the battle, in the midst of the roar of the armies in confrontation, the blood on the ground, the screams of the wounded men, the cries of the warlords, first of all Arya Stark of Winterfell, the woman without fear, his woman.  
Its been a few hours since they first made love, the first time for Arya, like the first for Jaquen, in that new body of a man he was learning to know.  
Their minds had united, Jaquen realized the power of their bond when he saw her, entering the central courtyard, fulcrum of the preparations; as he passed, the soldiers had moved, revealing Arya at the end, weighing the new forged swords with the young man with the black hair of the vision.  
Having dismounted, he had called her with the full name and Arya turned, first in disbelief, then happy, then quick to throw herself into his arms, it was him, tired, with a long beard and dirty clothes.  
"You're here!" She kept repeating, squeezing Jaquen tightly, oblivious to the looks of those around them, touching his shoulders and arms to make sure it was real.  
"I'm here, a long journey to see a lovely girl."  
Arya hugged him strong again, felt the armor hidden under his tunic, he had come to fight.  
In the growing darkness - the soldiers lit fires to warm themselves and the women served the dinner, which for many would be the last - Arya and Jaquen stood by the well. The smith had watched them until the forge was extinguished due to lack of fuel, Jaquen had felt the intense gaze and the angry blows of the hammer.  
Now Jaquen was cold, his fingers were chill, his teeth were rattling, so Arya took his hand to guide him into the hall of the keep where she had established her command.  
In silence, closed the door to the world, Arya's lips delicate on his and then her hands in his and then Arya inside him and he inside her.  
Jaquen had no more doubts, she was his destiny and he had accepted it.  
At dawn they were on the lookout waiting for the enemy, the eagle visible on the highest point of the roof; they had helped each other to wear the armors, a gesture more intimate than the sexual act they had shared.  
"Why does the eagle stay here?" Arya asked. "Dragons can kill her."  
"It's your father's spirit," Jaquen said, pointing to the bird of prey.  
Arya followed his hand and the animal spread its wings, lowered its head and let out a cry. From the stairs, the race of Nymeria, which saw the eagle and obediently crouched, her nose between her paws, whining softly.  
If Arya sought confirmation, Nymeria had just given it, but now she had no time to think, the enemy's battle cry pressed on.

Once the enemy was defeated, the clamor of the weapons ceased, the wounded medicated and the dead buried, Arya was sat writing letters and Jaquen stretched out in the hot tub that Arya had prepared for him.  
Under the eyelids, when he closed his eyes, the images of the battle, in the blood the remnants of adrenaline, on his shoulders the sensation of Stark's hand congratulating him,  
The great merit was of Arya, Stark could be proud of his daughter, Jaquen's role had been supportive, Arya's warlike instinct in her gray eyes had lit the hearts of her men, but Stark whispered that the ice in Arya had melted by Jaquen's hair flames.  
He watched her carefully, Arya bit her lower lip as the pen flowed, a pause, a thought, she resumed on a new sheet, then she straightened her back, her eyes on the ceiling, and then on him, on the man she he had freed, to whom she had given a face.  
Jaquen got up and took a tunic to dry himself, Arya's gaze filled him with a pleasant warmth, different from that of the bathroom.  
Arya put down her pen and closed the ink to go near him, their embrace was not as desperate as the first night, they had time to explore their bodies that attracted and merged according to the rhythms of nature.  
Later, Arya's fingers touched him everywhere.  
"I liked your beard."  
"It will always grow back now."  
"Are you still a faceless man?"  
Jaquen made a small grimace.  
"I can't change my face anymore without my master's help."

The burning house was so close that Jaquen felt the heat of the fire and breathed the smoke of the fire, his lungs hurt.  
Coughing he rise up, grabbing the edge of the bed, trembling with effort; Nymeria, resting on the carpet sideways, moved her head and gave a short yelp.  
The dreams had returned, they had one last enemy, the king of the night.  
The movements woke Arya who looked at him with concern, she had never seen Jaquen in such a state before, his face was a mask of pain, his eyes full of tears.  
She touched his arm to read his thoughts for the first time. the respect for her teacher before and then the disappointment after leaving the house had blocked her in using what her father had transmitted and taught her. And inside Jaquen's heart she read flames, death and a pain similar to hers, a loss never faced, only denied and buried for many years.  
Jaquen could not handle the pain, he had no tools to understand the feelings that were challenging him. She pushed him to speak, touching his face with light fingers, until he relaxed.  
An assassin turned man did not know what regrets and remorse were. Jaquen told her about his family, his father had been given the house and the fields for the services rendered to his lord and he had decided to become a man of peace.  
"He wouldn't be proud of me."  
"You couldn't do anything else. Revenge absorbs every other desire. "  
"That's right, lovely girl. Perhaps I always knew that helping your revenge was expiating mine. "


	5. Chapter 5

To confirm peace, to suspend hostilities, to give stability to the Northern government, Arya asked for Jaquen's hand.  
The reason – Arya later explained him - was also to avoid having to marry someone else in order to cement political or dynastic alliances.  
Jaquen was able to look inside Arya and understand her strength. Not a nobleman, a prince or a king. Only a name had been in Arya's mind for a long time, since she had arrived at the House following the road the coin had opened.  
It wasn't a strictly romantic proposal, at least in Sansa's opinion.  
Arya waited for Jaquen to arrive in the command room as every morning, she pointed at a bench, then sat next to him; if Jaquen was curious, he would not let it show. Arya didn't worry, she was used to the impassivity of his face.  
"Our old master assigned you to me, didn't he?"  
"That's right."  
"For how long?"  
"I don't know, this mission doesn't have an expiration time."  
"Did you notice that you no longer speaks always in the third person?"  
"Now I have become Jaquen H'ghar. Your father's ghost also confirms it."  
"Then we can get married."  
A man gasped in disbelief: of all the ideas Arya had, this was the most unexpected. Still, it was the most logical.  
"So?"  
Arya was waiting for an answer, her lower lip trapped between her teeth.  
"Marry ... you and me?"  
"Who else? You left the House and you need a place to live and a role, while I need a husband. Someone who respects me and whom I can trust. Not a noble who forces me to live in a golden prison."  
Arya had earned the right to choose her spouse with her warrior deeds, extended it to her older sister - free to marry Sandor, her protector - and to the other daughters of the nobles of the North; a cadet had become more important than the firstborn.  
No one could impose Arya a husband or impose himself as a husband; after the marriage proposal Jaquen went down to the garden to reflect, hoping that Stark was not horrified by the idea of his daughter with an assassin, even though she herself had been specially instructed to kill.  
The gallery of Arya's ancestors, portrayed in the paintings hanging in the great hall, was impressive and he could only bring memories of a burned house and a broken family, not noble even though his father had been a faithful soldier.  
The heirs of the title would come from the nephew, Jon, from Sansa, the older sister – according to Arya, a human pup would be born soon - from the other Stark males; Jaquen just wanted a future with Arya, he had to discuss with his former master about the possibility of being partially released from the vows: impossible to think of leaving Arya, after all they endured that had united them.  
Seated at a stone table, Sansa waved him to sit beside; at her feet Nymeria and two other huge wolves, with thick and shiny winter coat.  
Nymeria wanted to know if Jaquen was really part of the pack and sniffed him, there was the smell of his mistress on the skin and clothes.  
Sansa and Jaquen had never had long conversations, she was taken by her duties as Lady of the house, by her new husband and by Winterfell's restoration.  
"Arya anticipated the idea of your marriage."  
Jaquen lowered his head; it was logical for Arya to inform her sister, the head of the family.  
Sansa carefully observed the man Arya had chosen, a decision that reflected the true nature of the young Stark. After years at the service of the many-faced God, Arya could not opt for a simple knight nor for the former blacksmith, now legitimized by his family.  
"My sister says she will always obey you, but she will never obey you."  
"I've always been the one to obey."  
"You have a choice, accept or refuse the marriage."  
"I never chose, a man for years has only served his God."  
"My sister should really care about you to want you as her husband. She always refused the idea of marriage. "Sansa concluded before getting up and walking away, followed by the wolves.  
"Just so." Jaquen replied, resuming his journey in the garden.  
Stark was in front of the gate that opened onto the ramparts, he kept it closed and blocked the passage.  
Jaqen understood and nodded. He had to stay.

Even Jaquen did not believe that in a few hours, at the height of the sun, in the cold winter light, he would become Arya's husband in front of the family and the nobles of the North all gathered at the castle.  
Arya would be linked with him for life, according to the laws and the gods. It was the road his master had drawn in their last meeting, being a name and giving his name to someone else.  
It meant abandoning a part of the old life, not the faith in his God, to be at service of his woman.  
Jaquen moved the brick of the fireplace that the ray of light had struck and in the cavity he found a roll tied with a white ribbon.  
The parchment was thin, impalpable and resistant at the same time; he unrolled it carefully, his hands unsure, a new sign from a father, satisfied that his children had found peace.  
The drawing revealed itself to his eyes: a man with a white lock on his head, next to a female figure in men's clothes, shorter, the dark braids tied to the way of the North, between the duo a little boy with gray eyes and red hair, at their feet a large wolf, above an eagle.  
The details were precise and clear, the woman was Arya, the man was him and the child with the distinctive traits of both, he sure was their.  
A son, another heir for Winterfell, for the Starks, for Arya.  
Jaquen looked at the drawing in wonder, he had always prepared for Arya the infusion that avoided conception every time their bodies joined, after the ceremony the choice - or destiny – would become Arya's, he didn't want to influence her. A son wasn't easy for a warrior like her, there was a cousin to rule, a brother to judge and her sister to hold court, he and Arya were free to choose their lives. But they had never spoken of a family, perhaps they could after the journey toward West that Arya so much yearned for.  
Perhaps the drawing was right, a son, only one, no more, Arya would pass on her powers and Jaquen taught him to fight for himself and his family.  
The door opened and the Hound called Jaquen.  
"Are you ready?"  
A man who was once unnamed and faceless stood up and reached Sandor in the doorway, dressed like him in elegant and slightly uncomfortable clothes.  
"You can still avoid it. There is a saddled horse ready in the barn. "Sandor's voice had a hint of regret, Sansa liked her future brother-in-law and Arya had spoken so much of her real killer when she and Sandor had traveled together. But if Jaquen had other plans and another destiny, Sandor wanted to offer him a way out.  
"Escape from a Stark girl? Who ever managed to do so?" The two men looked at each other for a long time and came to an understanding.  
"You're right, it's impossible."  
"Let's go, I can't keep my lovely girl waiting."


End file.
